Back in the red dust of Sedona now. I’ve been staring out at the rocks, same ones that shaped me, feeling them speak to me in silence. After Frozen Sawlid, I thought I’d be eager to jump back into the grind, but I’ve spent these weeks still as stone, letting the quiet harden something inside.

Losing the hand… that’s not something you walk away from clean. It’s not just the pain — it’s the imbalance. Felt like my center shifted, like I was a leaning tower waiting to collapse. So I trained. Not just muscle. Foundation. Learned to move again, learned to fight again. Taught my body to flow around the missing piece. Reinforced my stance, grounded myself. My strikes now echo from the earth, not just from force.

I’ve been meditating, too. Not the lotus kind — more like cracking open my past. The curse that made me this way still hums under my skin. I think I’m starting to hear its rhythm. Maybe I can make it my own.

Verso checked in. Said time’s still on our side, but barely. Told her to give it a minute. I’m not done building. The next time a door explodes beneath me, I’ll be ready.

Slippers are holding up, by the way.